Trust
by Alohaemora
Summary: A broken George Weasley escapes the festivities to be alone.


10 May 1998

George sat silently in the shade of the Whomping Willow, which, itself, was being considerably quieter than usual. Maybe it too was mourning the loss of so many innocent lives. Maybe it too felt the pain that George felt so excruciatingly. In the background, George could vaguely hear screams and shouts of glee. He could hear the fireworks exploding. Everyone was celebrating. The war had ended. Voldemort was dead. But, at what a terrible, terrible cost.

Only George had escaped the festivities. Celebrating was the last thing on his mind.

He'd mumbled a quick excuse to his family and fled the memorial service. He'd seen his mother's eyes fill with tears, his father's face fill with worry. He'd watched Bill's brow contort, Charlie shrug helplessly, and Percy stare in shock. He'd looked away as Ron sighed sympathetically and Ginny shook her head disbelievingly. He'd seen their faces pool with disappointment and pity when he'd left the memorial, left Fred's funeral, to be alone.

"George?"

He looked up, slowly, not particularly in the mood for company. But, when his eyes finally met those of the person who stood before him, he was surprised to recognize a face that he hadn't been expecting to see.

"Angelina," he said gruffly. His eyes swept over her, curiously. "Why aren't you at the memorial?"

"Why aren't you?"

George looked away. "What's it to you?" he asked bitterly.

"Everything," she told him simply.

George glanced at her. "I don't want to go that damned memorial," he told her in a low voice. "Like any of those people would've agreed to let the Ministry go on for hours about how they were beautiful, and courageous, and…whatever…"

"Oh, I don't know." Angelina frowned. "Those people died for us, George. I think they would be glad to know we appreciate their sacrifice."

George shrugged noncommittally.

Slowly and carefully, Angelina laid a hand on his shoulder. "George," she whispered in his ear. "Fred wouldn't have wanted—"

It was as though she'd lit the firework, ready to explode, within him.

"You don't know that!" he bellowed, jerking his shoulder away. Filled with a sudden surge of hatred towards his existence, George leaped backwards, a manic glint in his eyes. "You—you don't bloody—you don't _know_ what he would have wanted because he's—!"

He fell forward, clutching at his hair, body racking uncontrollably. "He's gone, Angelina," George snarled into the grass. The pungent, fresh scent was threatening to overwhelm him, but he did not budge. His throat constricted and his eyes burned, but George could not move a muscle.

It was several, long minutes before Angelina cleared her throat. And, when she did, George started in surprise. He had half-hoped she'd left him alone.

"I don't want your pity, Angelina," George snapped immediately.

"Yeah, well, you're in luck, George Weasley," Angelina retorted. "I haven't got any pity to offer you, hear me?"

George froze. It was as though he'd been struck by lightning, he was paralyzed. All these weeks, the only things people had ever given him were help, pity, more help, more pity. Not once had it seemed to occur to anyone that—perhaps—he was not as damaged as they thought. That perhaps all he wanted was one, nonchalant conversation.

George had spent the last week drowning himself in Firewhiskey. He'd spent every waking moment since the second of May in an alcoholic haze. But, now, he felt wide awake. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, turning to stare at Angelina, his blue eyes wide.

Angelina's brown eyes softened slightly, but she did not apologize. "Look, George, I'm going to be completely honest with you. This—this loss that you've suffered, it'll never go away. It'll be with you—well, forever."

George closed his eyes.

"Your family wants to help you, George," she continued quietly. "You're pushing away—everything they offer, but—but you have to know—they're the only ones who can come even the slightest bit close to feeling the pain you do."

George sniffed slightly, the familiar acrid sensation floating about his eyes and nose. And, for once, George couldn't drink it away.

"It's not going to go away George," Angelina's voice was close now. He could feel her breath on his neck. He shivered. "But…it'll get better."

George opened his eyes, breathing deeply. His vision flickered wildly and he seized her wrists, terrified. Angelina's warm fingers brushed his own, and he stilled, his breathing returning to normal.

"Trust me, George."

Without a word, he buried his face in her shoulder, his body finally releasing the tears it had been dying to release.

* * *

><p>Angelina and George have to be one of my absolute favorite post-war couples. A lot of people think that they got married because they remind each other of Fred. I kind of find it hard to believe that Fred and Angelina were ever a couple. I think they were just really good friends, and that George was the one Angelina later truly fell in love with.<p> 


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